Assassin's Waltz
by wreckofherheart
Summary: [Sequel to The Indignant] '... but I do not recall the Devil ever falling for God's angels.'
1. Chapter 1

**:.:**

Assassin's Waltz  
 **1.**

 **:.:**

The handkerchief, stained with the marks of childhood, falls across her cheek. A smile, heavenly, reaches her lips.

A cruel smile.

'Look, see what I found. You keep the little things which matter, and this is what you've been hiding all of these years.'

Wood creaks. A woman stands above her, fire in her eyes.

Territory has been invaded.

'Return that to me.'

'Why?' She laughs through a sigh, and presses the handkerchief to her mouth. 'Was this a gift from your love?' A giggle. 'Something to remember him by?'

No response.

Just the promise of vengeance.

She inhales the scent of the material. 'An offer of comradeship. You are not the type, Natasha.' A hand reaches out, tries to grab the handkerchief. Joyful, the offender stands and grins at Natasha. She's beautiful and radiant and mad with envy. 'Love is a toxic game only fools play.'

Like a hawk, Natasha preys on her. Delicate with her step; she identifies her target's weakest points. How she holds herself, where she can easily disarm her. The handkerchief is clutched in the other woman's grip.

Eventually she realises.

'Ah, is this a gift from your Director?' Another smile, dreamy. 'Hm. I hear such _great_ stories about her.'

Natasha moves.

Her hands, soft and merciless, aim for the woman's throat. They scratch, pull, punch and it's a majestic brawl of quick and frightening lunges. Their hands are daggers, feet the bullets in a gun; their bodies are weapons.

The handkerchief drops.

Flutters.

Like the wings of a bird.

Natasha snatches it before it hits the floor. She blocks the next attack, and kicks her opponent in the solar plexus. Her target lands frightfully sudden, and she's winded temporarily. Anger and jealousy burn in her irises. She glares up at Natasha, hating her; rivalry consummated.

The winner is clear.

'If you knew what was best for you, Underwood, I'd suggest you stay away.'

'We are not created to love,' she spits.

'That is something I once believed.' Natasha turns on her heel, and the handkerchief hides in her clenched fist. 'You still have much to learn.' She smiles crookedly. There is nothing more satisfying than teasing an elder. 'Obviously.'

'Have you searched for her?' There's a smirk from her opponent. Mockery.

Natasha denies she has.

Although, curiosity has eaten away at her. It has been over a decade since she last met the Director and she doubts a woman, like she, would remember Natasha. The girl, against the pillar, lost and bloody.

The ice cream she gave.

And the handkerchief to wipe her mouth. Such an intimate, terrifying moment Natasha has never endured before. The Director spoke to her like an equal. Spoke to her with a gentle, warm voice. As if inviting Natasha into a world of tranquility, peace and justice.

Three gifts Natasha has never truly considered.

Not objectively.

There are those who fight for others, and then there are those who fight for themselves.

She thinks about those few minutes with the Director. That one time she was truly a child. A person.

(She could be human.)

'I know her.'

Natasha turns to Underwood, brow raised. She smiles faintly. 'Your deception is merely entertainment to me.'

'Aha. You lack faith in my words.'

'Why would I not?' Natasha looks down on her, confident and assured.

'She has a hard surface, but is as weak as cotton. Fragile thing. Some days, I feel sorry for her––broken and worthless.'

'Does your sympathy extend to you, then? Considering you match the same description.'

'You're funny.'

'I try.'

'I've always loathed you, Romanova.' She stands, eyes dark and menacing. 'You earned the title Black Widow, whereas the rest of us scurried along behind. Our efforts were worthless; we went away unnoticed.'

'Aw. You're hurt.'

'I wanted to be the best.' Underwood steps forward. 'The most powerful. We are all Black Widows, but you––you became _The_ Black Widow, waltzing with that beast they call The Winter Soldier. Ha! To stand beside _him_.'

'You poor thing,' Natasha doesn't blink, 'You live in the past. What a torturous life you _do_ lead.'

'Sometimes, the past is all we have left. You wouldn't know: you have erased _yours_ , after all.' Underwood's eyes drop to the handkerchief. 'Well, _most_ parts of it, at least. I'm not the only one struggling to let go.'

'You misinterpret my affections, Belova. I suggest you stop now before you cause yourself further embarrassment.'

'I no longer go by that name. We have both stripped ourselves from the name we were gifted as students.' She squints. 'For entirely different reasons.' She exhales, 'The Red Room facility seems so far away nowadays. An asylum buried deep under the earth.'

'Why waste time mourning history? It is meaningless.'

'You lie.'

'People say that is my greatest talent.'

'You can't laugh me out of my feelings, Romanova. You pretend you're immune to such emotions, but I am not fooled. You're the most vulnerable out of all of us. A flower, beautiful and alight, petals as tender as silk. Just one _pluck––_ '

'And, yet, you have none left to scatter.'

Underwood is silent, and her face goes pale.

Then: one more smile. Almost innocent.

'I dream about loving again––that was the only moment in my life when I ever tasted the purest form of freedom.'

She comes over, and grasps Natasha's hand, the handkerchief buried in her palm. Their faces are inches apart. They look at each other, nearly as equals, but viciously opposed. How they were once the same girl, the same infant; defeating their pack of wolves for the crown.

'Until it eats you alive.' Dorothy licks her lips. 'Like the Devil.'

Natasha laughs, a breathtaking tune. 'Oh, I am very intimate with the Devil. Some even say, we are one and the same.'

'Perhaps.' She grins. 'But I do not recall the Devil ever falling for God's angels.'

Natasha's eyes sparkle with amusement. To her slight dismay, Dorothy doesn't put up a fight, and backs down. Their hands slip apart, and her fellow peer departs.

She waves.

' _Do svidaniya_!'

 **:.:**

 **author's note** : A short sequel, with short chapters. I guess I had to continue from its predecessor. There were just too many ideas floating around.


	2. Chapter 2

**:.:**

Assassin's Waltz  
 **2.**

 **:.:**

Four targets.

Each have been located, studied in depth; their movements observed.

They reside in the same room.

A celebration party, for the infamous genius Howard Stark. The past ten years a success of brilliant inventions and valuable instruments in aid of SHIELD's work. Five top agents attend, as body guards.

They are subtle, but not subtle enough for The Black Widow.

She identifies all five the moment she steps into the grand hall. All assume she has been invited; Natasha dresses for the occasion. A flattering, scarlet dress, with an open back. Her hair is long, the longest it's ever been, past her shoulders, down to her bosom. And it's nice: nice to feel feminine after such a time.

Howard Stark is weak, especially with pretty women.

The man, although married, notices Natasha immediately and comes over, wearing a foxy smirk. She smiles, delighted to have gained his attention so speedily and for the next several hours, he is her entertainment. In the meantime, she splits her focus; eyes dancing onto her targets.

All of them are here.

'You haven't told me your name yet.'

Natasha's eyes glimmer. 'Natalie,' she says, 'I've always admired your work, Mister Stark. How honoured I am to finally meet you in person.'

'It's taken you far too long,' Howard replies.

The greying hair, few wrinkles, tired eyes. She knows this man once had a childhood, a youth; something he recklessly delved in, while others never had the opportunity to. Natasha was too young to participate in the war––she was not ready, but she read about it; every detail she could.

Heroes, they are called. The men who stepped onto the field and fired bullets. Like maddened souls.

Natasha expresses little sympathy.

A crooked smile, and she leans into him, 'Mm, maybe I can make it up to you?'

He is pleased with that. Howard clicks his fingers and a waiter arrives. The man wants the finest wine available, and two glasses. Natasha shall be offered special treatment this evening. The other guests have established their host is otherwise occupied, and leave the couple be to their drinks.

But Howard is distracted when he catches sight of somebody.

'Ah!'

Natasha follows his line of gaze.

'Peg, I thought you weren't going to come.'

'After all this time, you still express doubt in me. I'm wounded.'

There is a woman, and she walks over, walks in a way Natasha is familiar with. It is her eyes Natasha notices first: deep and inviting; mysterious. Natasha cocks back her chin, and faces the woman Howard endearingly calls "Peg". Then she studies Howard's behaviour with Peg, how he kisses her cheek, grins at her; their affection, obvious, is the sort of affection Natasha observes in a friendship.

Years show in the woman's face, but, somehow, it suits her.

'This is Natalie. Natalie, this is Peggy.'

'A pleasure,' Natasha takes Peggy's hand in a firm handshake.

She knows that name.

'I don't recall seeing your name on the guest list,' Peggy remarks, cocking a brow. 'However, I find no harm in our new addition.'

'A colleague invited me,' Natasha lies, but she could convince anybody. 'He is aware of my––well, _admiration_ of the great Mister Stark.'

Howard blushes slightly. His weakness is apparent. 'Did'ya hear that, Pegs? _Great_. You should call me that from now on.'

'Not on your life,' Peggy scoffs.

It _is_ her.

It is the same woman, the same Peggy, who took her hand and taught her about falling, about the purpose of standing back on one's feet again; it is the same woman who fed her, gave her a childhood, if only for a moment.

But that girl was Natalia. A baby herself, ignorant and under the command of her Handler.

Peggy doesn't know _Natasha_. Not the woman who stands in a red dress, who flirts with men to earn her prize; who uses her own body as a weapon. And, yet, the way Peggy looks at her, through those same warm irises, Natasha would think Peggy has known her all along.

She knows.

Yes.

She must know who Natasha is.

'Natalie has been telling me all about herself; you spend your free time painting,' Howard looks at Natasha for confirmation. The whole painting hobby was a cheap, and easy lie. One Natasha threw out on a whim. She nods. 'I was invited to come and inspect said paintings. Should be a treat.'

'How lovely,' Peggy whispers, a sort of sadness in her smile.

Natasha drops her gaze, and decides to simply focus on Howard; the woman's expression carves too much emotion in her.

'If you'll excuse me, Mister Stark; Natalie.'

'Don't run far,' Howard teases, before returning his attention to his redhead companion.

Natasha doesn't allow herself to watch Peggy walk away; despite the longing sensation building within her. She doesn't quite know why, but letting Peggy go like that––it's left a bit of a mark.

How bizarre, that they meet again.

The handkerchief still in her possession.

She erases the image of Peggy in her mind, and thinks the way her character thinks. Howard is oblivious. Natasha identifies a target, to her left, expressing suspicious behaviour. He's starting to panic; he's starting to feel nervous and soon it will be Natasha's turn to act. It will be a speedy job.

One target departs.

As does the next.

Two remain.

Natasha excuses herself, and Howard turns to entertaining the other guests.

This is all second nature. She's dealt with this sort of foolish manoeuvre from her targets before; those they call hitmen, terrorists, the lot––very rarely are they a challenge to defeat. She sees right through their motives.

Natasha walks out of the hall, follows one of her targets.

Certain the area is deserted, she catches up with him, and slams his body into the wall. The man is trapped in her lock. Before he can yell for help, she knocks him out cold, slumping him into a nearby chair.

Her second target is heading for the next floor. She knows why.

First floor: a bomb. He intends to blow up the building.

With him still inside.

Of course she reaches him, and he's shocked and horrified to have been caught. Bloody nose and fractured skull, he collapses to her feet, useless. Her next objective is to disable the bomb and get out.

That is her mission.

It's under the rug, under the floorboard. She has to break open the wood in order to retrieve the bomb. A heavy thing, wires connected. This shan't be a problem. She kneels down, flips her hair over her shoulder, and studies the bomb, which wires to remove. It will take her, at most, ten seconds.

Something cold presses into the back of her head.

The snout of a handgun.

'That's quite enough.'

Natasha smirks. 'Are you going to shoot me?'

'Don't think I mightn't. Come along, now. Move away.'

'I have it under control––'

'It is _not_ your control to have.'

Natasha blinks. She furrows her brows, and peers over her shoulder. There is no mercy in Peggy's eyes. 'You should allow me to disable the bomb. I know the mechanics. Your men can attempt at trying, but, if you knew better, you'd leave this all to me.'

There's a pause, and Peggy lowers the gun. Slight reluctance.

'Go on.'

Natasha turns back to the bomb and, in one swift movement, disables the bomb.

There's silence.

And then: 'Stand up. I want to see your face.'

To Natasha's surprise, she actually obeys. She meets Peggy's eyes, and there's something almost satisfying about not having to look up at this woman anymore. She doesn't know what to expect, but she wasn't expecting Peggy to appear so solemn.

The woman is calm. 'Now I know the real reason behind you not being on the guest list. Next time, try not to lie.'

'I never lie: I am an honest woman, through and through.'

'Do you take me for an idiot? Don't play tricks.'

Natasha imagines Peggy raising the gun.

The bullet.

Natasha imagines Peggy offering her death, with that same broken smile.

She wants to see that smile again.

That grief. That pain. That beauty.

That slight, dented hope.

'You are not an agent,' Peggy remarks. 'You are in no way associated with myself or SHIELD.' Natasha doesn't respond. 'Let us keep it that way. If I see you within a mere inch of my work, I'll make sure you take no further step. Are we at an understanding?'

'Whatever you say.'

'Go. Be gone with you.'

Perhaps the great Director does not remember, after all.

Perhaps she does not remember young Natalia, her bloody knees, her enthusiasm over something as trivial as ice cream.

Perhaps Natasha has been a fool.

(Love has never been a kind caress.)

She maintains a stoic expression, refusing to feel anything for this woman; the rejection thrown at her.

For Natasha is used to such cool farewells.

She does not voice any more words. Natasha steps around Peggy, gaze locked, and the war, the years of battle, shine through Peggy's face. There is a riddle of puzzles waiting to be deciphered, and Natasha is thirsty to solve each.

For now, she does as she's told, and walks away.


	3. Chapter 3

**:.:**

Assassin's Waltz  
 **3.**

 **:.:**

This time, _she_ intercepts Natasha's mission.

Unheard of.

Natasha is a shadow, disappearing into the night; she doesn't possess a form. She's a blur, something distant; something close to a ghost, except ghosts don't kill as beautifully as she does. Natasha is a dark shade of red, blanketed over in a darkness which makes her unable to grasp.

It is a mission which is impossible for one person to complete.

But Natasha is an army in herself.

Target: Head of a French Mafia. In Natasha's book, this is too easy. She could complete this mission in less than ten minutes. If she so wished.

Objection: Hunt down the files which reveal other hideouts, the businesses the Mafia has built, and so on. Afterwards, Natasha can do whatever she wants.

Frankly, she's not keen on men who think it okay to start a business of sex slavery. It is nothing uncommon, though. She's dealt with gentlemen like this before and _may_ even spare their life––the alternative being prison.

Unfortunately for this man, in particular, Natasha isn't in a generous mood.

Upon entering his office, she dodges his bullet, grabs him by his jacket and wraps an arm around his neck.

She strangles him. His body writhes, he chokes, his feet scramble, and he tries to fight her. But she's resilient and too strong.

Eventually he falls limp, and she drops the body.

Natasha steps over his corpse, and searches the office. This is a quick manoeuvre. She claims what she needs before proceeding out.

An ambush.

A Mafia member kicks her as she escapes, and she's not fast enough to block the attack. Natasha handles her balance, and knocks him out with a simple punch. Her next target is more robust; his grip is strong.

She can hear them: more men.

More men than she predicted. Natasha needs to get out.

She knees her opponent in the groin, and he releases her. Natasha forward rolls, missing several bullets. She trips over a target, snatches the other by his collar, shoving him into the wall. His skull is battered from the impact.

Five men home in on her. Hands everywhere. Natasha manages to escape their possession, but she's small compared to them. Agility isn't everything in a situation like this. The documents are still gripped in her hand, and she's conscious of them slipping away.

She kicks one man in the chin, and he collapses back, taking down another with him. A target grabs her by the hair and _yanks_ ––

 _Bam_!

A bullet passes her ear.

Blood explodes from the target behind.

Another bullet. Another man drops. Natasha considers searching for her supposed ally, but focusses on the mission instead. She takes out one of the men, and then there are more bullets. Gunfire.

Men collapse left and right.

Some eventually flee.

Natasha recognises the uniform of an agent. He's young, but he wasn't the one who fired first. The offender stashes away her weapon, and Natasha's heart skips a beat. She should have known.

Despite having killed several men, Peggy appears as calm and elegant as ever.

This is work to her.

Duty.

Scowling, Natasha comes over towards the Director, 'Before you scold me for being here––'

'I can't blame you over a matter of coincidence,' Peggy replies.

'Very well.' Natasha walks past, but Peggy grabs her arm.

'And where do you think you're going?'

Natasha looks at her through narrowed eyes. 'To do business which is my own.'

'The documents?'

'Mine. I found them.'

Peggy chuckles, and Natasha suddenly feels small. 'My dear, this isn't a game of finders keepers. I insist: hand over those documents to me. SHIELD will take care of them; you are free to visit if you wish to inspect the documents.'

'I don't work for SHIELD––'

'You should. We could use someone of your calibre. You have a brilliant mind, dear.'

Natasha has never been complimented like this before. Not quite. She's been praised for her fighting abilities, her agility, her breathtaking appearance, but her intelligence? That's something else entirely.

It's what Peggy notices.

Natasha yanks her arm out of Peggy's grip. 'I work alone.'

'As did I. Maybe you should reconsider? Or, at least, give me a chance.'

It's almost sweet, how she asks, how she offers the invitation. How she looks at Natasha with a kind smile. A smile which gave Natasha a little hope when she was just a child.

Natasha nearly allows herself to drown in regret. What if Peggy had taken her in? What if Peggy was Director when they first met?

Would Natasha's life be any different?

She wonders about accepting, working side-by-side with a woman like Peggy.

Reconsiders.

She cannot work as a team.

(Not again.)

'I'm not who you want, Director.'

Peggy's expression softens. 'I doubt that.'

'Then doubt.'

Peggy says nothing, and Natasha realises this is Peggy letting her go.

This life is not for Natasha. It never was. Natasha will not––cannot––form attachments; she cannot go down that deadly road again. She _won't_.

Even if she's imagined Peggy asking her this very question.

Asking her to be with her. Offering her a family.

Natasha walks past the Director of SHIELD, past somebody she wishes wasn't so easy to love, and shudders in her fright.

The endurance of Peggy's eyes on her, until she leaves the room, is like an iron pressed to her spine.

 **:.:**

A week later, Natasha arrives at SHIELD headquarters. And hands in the documents she previously claimed as her own.

She does not visit Director Carter.

The Russian assassin disappears before the documents even reach Peggy's hands.


	4. Chapter 4

**:.:**

Assassin's Waltz  
 **4.**

 **:.:**

A kind request is sent from SHIELD headquarters. Dorothy Underwood laughs upon hearing the news that Natasha Romanoff accepts what has been asked of her. And Natasha scorns her existence.

They are soldiers, the agents who work at SHIELD. Soldiers who don thick coats, and have fought a hundred wars in their lifetime. Almost equal to Natasha's brilliance, but not quite. They lack a sense of seriousness about them. One agent in particular has a loud voice, and he grins at Natasha in a sympathetic manner.

Director Carter acts as commanding officer.

The truck is driven in a clumsy manner, agents stuffed into the back, ready to escape and intrude the chosen location. Each agent wears black uniform, and despite possessing the same colour, Natasha is distinctively different. Her manner is not the same; her training is more specialised, and she holds all of these men in quiet regard.

'What say you, agent?'

Natasha realises she's being spoken to.

'Your fondest memory. Tell us about it.'

'Is that what you do?' Natasha smiles crookedly. 'Cling to your past?'

Some of the men exclaim in amusement. 'There's nothing wrong in missing what has been and gone,' her companion responds, smirking. 'Unless your past has been so goddamn miserable, you have no memories to share.'

Natasha doesn't break their gaze. 'I have a few memories, yes.'

'C'mon,' he leans back, content, 'Let us hear them before we all run towards our deaths.' A few men snigger at that remark.

Natasha glances over at Director Carter, but she isn't listening. She and another agent are going through the plan, leaning over a rough outline of the building they shall break into––Natasha wishes she didn't feel a pang of envy. Why has the Director not included her in the discussion?

The men wait patiently for Natasha to reply.

'When I was a little girl,' she begins, 'I was very alone. Some would say I was lost.' Natasha exhales, smiling to herself. 'There was a day when I did, indeed, consider myself alone. However, a woman found me, and she taught me several valuable lessons.' From the corner of her eye, she watches Director Carter who's still not listening. 'Several I shan't forget.'

'Like what?'

'Oh,' Natasha sighs, 'The purpose of being an optimistic creature.'

Director Carter looks over to Natasha.

Natasha diverts her attention away, cheeks reddening slightly.

'The meaning of peace, and that, despite my traumatic life, I, too, can achieve it somehow.'

'Some stranger bombarded you with all that?'

'I wouldn't call her a stranger. She insisted I call her a friend, actually. And this friend was so generous, she even gave me something to remember her by––'

'I think that's quite enough fantasy from our colleague,' Director Carter interrupts. Natasha stiffens, and says no more. The men chortle, but do not object, especially when Director Carter throws over the outline of the building to one of them. 'Get back to work, gentlemen. Be prepared.'

'Yes, ma'am.'

'You too,' Director Carter meets Natasha's eyes, 'We shall have no burdens on this mission, do I make myself clear?'

Natasha doesn't answer.

For the first time in a long while, she feels like a child. Punished for her trickery. Natasha's pride is wounded and she drops her gaze to the floor. Refusing to challenge the Director.

It hurts, knowing that the Director does not recall who she is.

That she shut her down like that.

And, frankly, it doesn't make much sense: Natasha isn't the type to care what others think about her.

'What was it, by the way?' An agent queries.

Natasha cocks a brow. 'What?'

'The gift she gave you to remember her by.'

'Nothing special,' Natasha murmurs, completely aware of Peggy watching her. 'Just something to wash away the _dirt_.'

After the last few minutes are over, the truck comes to an abrupt halt, and each agent steps off speedily. The mission is a simple job, and, for the most part, Natasha is cooperative and works as a team.

The whole while, Director Carter stays close to her.

 **:.:**

Before Natasha can run away again, Peggy grabs her by the cuff of her sleeve. Natasha turns, eyes dead, mind screaming, and it suddenly occurs to her how much she's aged. Peggy is two inches shorter than she is. This woman, whom Natasha considered an angel when they both first met.

Natasha thinks Peggy is going to scold her, punish her; that is what they would do in the Red Room. They would shove you, kick you, make you _bleed_. Put you in cold isolation in the darkest room.

Peggy softens her expression; she's not angry.

'Thank you for your assistance today.'

'I have to go.'

'Wait––don't leave just yet.'

Natasha stops.

'Look at me.' Natasha refuses. 'Agent. I order you to look at me.'

'I am not an agent.'

'What are you, then?'

Natasha exhales slowly; a beast, impatient and troubled. Her eyes, sharp and cruel, flicker to Peggy's gentle face, and she can't believe Peggy would ask her that. What is she? Ha. That's a joke.

'You know what I am,' Natasha replies bitterly. 'Let go of me.'

Peggy obeys.

But Natasha doesn't leave. She stays, and allows the Director to study her, just like before. Peggy blinks up at her, an almost innocent smile playing at her red lips. Natasha allows herself to be invaded.

'You have such delicate eyes,' Peggy whispers, 'And your smile is sad. Why is that?'

'You shouldn't waste your time worrying over the emotional state of others. You make yourself weak, Director, through your concern.'

'I care,' Peggy says, voice gentle as always, 'And caring has never defeated me.'

'Not yet.' Natasha hates how her voice comes out; that slight _break_. As if she's allowing her history to eat her alive again. As if the change in her name has meant nothing. As if she's allowing it to kill her, everything that's happened. How she loathes emotion. _How much it dominates her_. 'Do not pity me, Director.'

'Pity _you_?' Peggy laughs, and Natasha's heart flutters. 'That would be outrageous of me.'

'I wouldn't put it passed you.'

'I have never pitied you,' Peggy lowers her voice, and Natasha wants to look away, 'From the start, I never thought you as someone to pity. All you've needed is a friend, to help you stand on your own feet again.'

Natasha's breath catches. She takes one step back; the blow too much. Is Peggy teasing her? Is Peggy possibly referring to all of those years ago? Natasha frowns, a wounded expression, and finally takes her leave.

Of course, the Director does not hail for her return.

 **:.:**

'Why associate yourself with The Black Widow? She's dangerous. Not to mention mad. Best we keep her as far away from SHIELD as possible.'

'Oh, I disagree,' Peggy replies fondly. 'She's a brilliant soldier, in her own right. I understand, though: one must keep an eye on her, but she isn't a threat.'

'Her name's Natasha Romanoff, and she's a Soviet assassin. You've dealt with that lot before, haven't you?'

The name "Natasha" doesn't ring familiar with Peggy.

She chuckles.

'I have.'


	5. Chapter 5

**:.:**

Assassin's Waltz  
 **5.**

 **:.:**

The letter is brief, signed by Mister Howard Stark. Natasha doesn't want to know how he discovered her temporary address, and immediately discards the paper. He wants to see her––immediately, if possible. Reason? Apparently, Mister Stark wishes to thank Natasha for her assistance in saving his life the prior evening, and he has a gift to honour her with.

Natasha is aware of Howard's inventions, his fabulous mind. The things he has created for SHIELD's agents, the weapons formed from his own bare hands. Natasha doesn't have to be a part of SHIELD in order to accept his present, but he would be overjoyed if she would join him, regardless. The assassin weighs her options, and, doubting this to be an ambush of any sort, accepts.

Clearly Howard is conscious of the fact Natasha doesn't enjoy being seen. So he proposes they meet in the most obvious place for the sake of being subtle. The sort of psychology Natasha understands and does herself. Acting shady only creates suspicion; fearlessly transparent is the best way to hide oneself. Confidence is key, and Natasha isn't afraid to meet him at the gardens.

Flowers are in bloom, even this early in spring.

Natasha's civilian clothing allows her to blend in with society. She looks younger than usual; one could mistake her for an eighteen-year-old, but she's beautiful; surreal amongst the petals. Colours of blue, pink and white grab her attention. Idly, Natasha runs her fingers over the soft flowers, smiling in an almost dreamlike manner. She feels safe here; and she's never safe.

Safety, for Natasha, has always been in a person.

Howard has not arrived. Not that she minds. Natasha is in a joyful mood; peaceful. She plucks at a flower, a white rose, and trails her fingertip across one of the petals. It feels like silk, smells of sunshine; reminds her of too many things. Too many great things, and, for a moment, she's not the girl who grew up in a chilly facility amongst other girls; not a soldier, not a tiny infant pushed into a web of manipulation and pulled apart by cruel hands.

For a moment, Natasha is herself.

Something finite. A being with a heart, a soul; a girl who can smile, and breathe, and walk alone without a purpose.

There is a silent presence behind her.

Natasha turns, expecting to see Mister Howard Stark, with his foxy grin, devilish gaze, but it is not he.

'Director?'

'I apologise for the delay.'

Natasha blinks, the flower delicately balanced between her fingers. 'I was expecting Stark––'

'I felt obligated to appear instead.'

The Director's eyes drop to the flower, then return to Natasha's face. Natasha is locked in her watch, and she's submissive to the Director's power. She knows, of course, that she could defeat this woman. It would be a slight challenge, but she could do it, and she could do it now if she so wished.

That is, if the Director was a threat.

But Peggy has been everything to Natasha, _but_ a threat.

Peggy inhales, and scans the garden. She's calm and sophisticated and awing, and the timid breeze flows through her hair. 'I do love it here,' she says, 'One of my favourite places to be––' She turns her head, faces Natasha again, '––especially after a day of battle. Something I imagine you are familiar with?'

There is no reply from The Black Widow.

Yet her eyes scream, weep at how gorgeous the garden is; how luxurious it must be, _how wonderful it must be_ , to return to a place like this. To find a place like this, and _relax_ in it.

Sometimes that is all Natasha wants.

Something normal.

'Mister Stark has a gift for you, but he was keen to present you with it himself.'

'I know,' Natasha's voice is blunt; it could cut through steel. 'I didn't think _you_ would be arriving instead.'

'My dear, I have much to explain to you.'

Natasha furrows her brows. 'What do you mean?'

'I have hoped, in some foolish attempt, that the agents I had sent to assist you on some of your missions––' She pauses, and Natasha sees insecurity. A human fault. '––Perhaps you can recall some of the times SHIELD agents conveniently helped you along your way to becoming who you are?'

Those times come straight to Natasha's mind, although she would never admit said agents _helped_ her in such a manner. It is true, however. SHIELD agents have a knack for meddling in with Natasha's work, despite her explicitly stating she wishes to be no part of their team.

And, of course, the agents who took her to the side and insisted she join. Return to headquarters and discuss the possibilities of her becoming one of the greatest and most esteemed agents within the building.

They tried to sell the opportunity with protection.

'I sent them out with a specific purpose to help you––to encourage you to be a part of the family we have created.'

Natasha says nothing for a long while.

It isn't betrayal she endures. Nothing like betrayal.

A form of endearment for the older woman. The flower nearly slips from her grip, and she wants Peggy to continue.

'That has been my intention from the beginning,' Peggy no longer hesitates. She holds Natasha's gaze, and Natasha is certain her heart has stopped––she could admire this woman for hours. 'I have never forgotten about the young girl I met, how proud and dignified she was, who only needed a little push to keep going. Since then, I have always wanted to… _offer_ her whatever she has required.'

'You remember?'

'How could I not?' Peggy breathes, 'I am sorry. I am sorry I could not have been more clear in my actions. I'm not very good at being direct.'

Any other thought is lost. All of this time, Peggy has known––she has _known_. And, all this time, _she_ has been the one inviting her to be a part of SHIELD. _She_ has opened the doors to Natasha, ever since she met her leaning against the pillar. The same woman, only a little younger, with her smile, her generosity and kindness and terror in living. One of few people who has remained a constant in Natasha's mind.

Natasha holds the stalk of her flower so fiercely, it nearly breaks.

'You should have told me of this before.'

Peggy expresses nothing but guilt, but it is not guilt Natasha wants her to feel. 'I didn't want to control your life, dear. I am aware of––of what they _do_ in those Red Room facilities. I know how they treat the poor girls like yourself. The last thing I wanted was to be another monster.'

It nearly makes her laugh.

The very idea of Peggy being a _monster_. Natasha has faced monsters, _faced herself_ , but Peggy? Peggy is the sweetest.

'But, after so long… I can no longer stand silent. I can't force you to be anyone, to be a part of anything––yet, what I offer, my division, I offer for _you_. You will be provided with safety, a home, respect, armoury specifically designed for your own needs, and a family.'

Natasha diverts her gaze, suddenly ignorant and afraid.

(That… all of that… it is too much.)

'I have only known one kind of family.'

A family of vultures.

Of terrible little girls.

Who break each other's neck for the golden prize.

Peggy's hand is soft, warm on Natasha's cheek, and everything in her expression wails a quiet understanding.

Immediately Natasha lowers her eyes, not ashamed, nor shy.

She's caught in a wave of intimacy she can't quite endure.

'You mustn't be afraid of me,' Peggy speaks, '–– _Natalia_. I am a friend.'

Natasha catches her breath. She clings to her flower, and she finds it in her to find Peggy's gaze. And her irises are a startling contrast to Peggy's, for they are furious and determined and suddenly brimming with life, and Peggy is intoxicated.

Those eyes, which have always seemed so _lifeless_ , are now bursting with a thrill. An addiction for everything Peggy has to offer.

'All along, have you not realised?' Natasha whispers, 'I have pursued you the only way I know how.'

Peggy kisses her.

And it is a kiss Natasha is unfamiliar with. A kiss which expresses a pure devotion, a gentle loyalty; a friendliness Natasha has never truly embraced. Peggy's kiss is as fragile as petals, as soft as the flower clutched in Natasha's hand.

A kiss from a rose.

The tenderness of home; of a distant, heavenly joy Natasha never thought she could _ever_ be a part of.

Blessed.

Her own solace.

* * *

 **End.**

* * *

 **author's note** : Thank you so much for reading! I have very much enjoyed writing about these two, especially in this context. I have definitely fudged up Natasha and Peggy's timeline for the sake of this alternate universe being possible! But, in doing so, it's just been heaps of fun, and their dynamic is one I certainly intend to continue delving into. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Until next time!


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